Tear of Ragnarok 1
by Nick Bodom
Summary: The mistaken Dark Lord, claimed to have ill designs for taking over the Council, defends by ensuring the permanent end of Ragnarok. But the exiled God takes to the dark side, and an enraged God is not at all safe
1. Glossary

--Synopsis/Characters--

Square of darkside, otherwise or commonly known as the realm of Glast Heim including the shadowy valleys of Niflheim, had expressed hostility against the Gods and the Rune-Midgard civilians. Filthy and distorted animals from those dark labyrinths are spawned endlessly to amount and grow. Worst of all, these dark creatures come under the leadership of The One, Dark Lord.

Once belonging to the Council of Gods, the Dark Lord was cast out for assuming to have harboured ill designs on the supremacy of all other Godly beings. With ego bruised, he seeks vengeance on those not standing on his side. Now, hundreds and thousands of these spawns, known as Shades at large, ravaged small towns and villages, slaughtering mass of people. It is almost impossible to stem the flow of the Shades.

The greatest fortress on Rune-Midgart, Prontera, is one of the targets to shatter. If the Dark Lord succeeds, Ragnarok would be forced to occur which will result in the Tear of the World. The small band of heroes may yet play hero under the extreme pressure of the massing Shades.

Characters—

Note: Will continue to add more as the story develops

The Council:-

Baphomet

One of the Gods in the Council of Gods. Exists in the form of a large goat demon carrying a scythe. Has Baphomet Jr. as underlings.

Dark Lord/Lord Phorton

A former god of the Council, now cast out and banished due to certain suspected treacheries. Resides in the Square of Darkside massing great shadowy beings. Exists in the form of a skeletal mage.

Garm

One of the Gods in the Council of Gods. Known as the Wolf God. Exists in the form of a large blue wolf.

Moonlight

One of the Gods in the Council of Gods. Exists in the form of a feline demon carrying a bell-pole.

Eddga

One of the Gods in the Council of Gods. Exists in the form of a tiger smoking a cigar. Known as a symbol of brute strength and raw power.

Lord of Death

One of the Gods in the Council of Gods. Exists in the form of an overgrown rider in shining silver, carries a giant lance.

Doppelganger

One of the Gods in the Council of Gods. Youngest of the council, carries a broadsword. Exists in the form of a ghostly swordsman.

Osiris

One of the Gods in the Council of Gods. Exists in the form of an ancient mummy with a crown. Also known as a symbol of history and eternity.

Rasil Alkon (re-sil al-kon)

A young, 15 year old kid residing in a small village east of Prontera named Kérun. One of the minority possessing the Old Violet Box. For some reason, maybe because of it, the Creeps of Dark Lord are on the lookout for him…

Eris Sehre (eris sayr)

Friend of Rasil, living in Kérun.

Munin (meu-nin)

More to come…


	2. Prelude

--Prelude--

Nobody thought the move was made so boldly in broad daylight, right up to the Prontera walls. The sour smell of an incoming rain together with the massing grey clouds accompanied the presence of the Exalted One as hailed by the foul minions from the Square of Darkness. It seemed that the Dark Lord, once a venerable God, was too confident judging from his numbers. Trailing behind him was a meagre score of Ghouls and Raydric Archers that was dwarfed by the columns of Prontera's very own priests, crusaders and knights, standing before the Dark Lord in defiance.

A mild rumble of thunder sounded across the sky, mixing with the resounding gongs coming from the grand church. Though a renowned fortress that could hardly be broken, the mighty frame of the Dark Lord alone was enough to surface doubts among the holy defenders, aside from the fact that a former God could even accomplish anything as well as a real God. The entire city of Prontera could very well be reduced to powdery rubbles in a snap of fingers.

The south gate of Prontera was seriously threatened. The Dark Lord swept misgivings despite the distance, and the constant glowing of those crimson, fiery eyes did not made it at all comforting. Bright blue lightning crackled softly around his long bony fingers, as if ready to char a body in case someone made a pre-emptive attack. His purplish cape looked like it was fluttering on its own rather than being blown in rhythm with the growing wind.

Brown leaves were picked up from the field, tossed briefly in the air and fluttered off elsewhere. The Dark Lord looked more amused than impassive. If he wanted, he could eradicate whatever structure before him, including those puny humans who thought their grand assembly would finally drive him off. But that was not the case. The Dark Lord's purpose today was not to start a war.

"My armies are fast rampaging the north, capturing slaves, usurping governance over towns and villages alike faster than running water. There will no more occurrence of Ragnarok under me, I suggest you imbeciles submit to me peacefully. Without aggression." The Dark Lord sneered.

The columns still stood still with distrust. In the first line of the knight squad, the captain, named Ikan, strode forward with the sheath clanking against his thigh.

"Whether you come in peace or not, Prontera will not be intimidated or destroyed! I say, you give it up."

A few knights could not help suppressing a gasp but stare at their captain. They did not know whether he was being stupid to confront a former God like that, or just brave enough to defend the rights of Prontera.

The Dark Lord cackled vigorously, the cape fluttering ever madly.

"Human, I admire your courage, but that is not going to stop me from conveying my message," the lord boomed in a demonic voice. "Al De Baran, the famous Clock Tower, should be conquered by my armies by now. The capital city is important to my goal, and you humans had better not ruin or delay it in any way."

Some of the defenders shifted uncomfortably at the statement of colonizing Al De Baran. The captain still stood tall and straight as if the Dark Lord was someone he had already and would defeat him again. But Ikan's cool composure was betrayed by the nervous fingering of his sword hilt.

"That is why you were banished, Dark Lord. That is why you were demoted to today's plight. I shall repeat; Prontera will not give way to your dark deeds."

When Ikan and his squad of Prontera's very best knights expected another laugh of amusement from the former God, a bright flash of lightning that lit up the entire land momentarily, then thunder boomed threateningly. The slow drizzle evolved into a roaring slash of thick rain drops.

The Dark Lord gave a provoked snarl, holding up bony fingers to signal the ghouls and raydrics behind him.

"It is so hard to budge, it looks, just like as long as this city's history… your fellow neighbours are going to hate you for that, pathetic vermins."

He waved the group of Shades closer, then pointed a long index finger at the gates. The rain drowned out the creaking of the bowstring stretching. Raydric archers, grey-armoured beings without a face and not much of limbs, released their war bows. A dozen thick, grey arrows went head on the gates made of solid bars of metal, and the defenders thought it would hold.

The harmless looking arrows that looked like it could only pierce a cotton shirt at most smashed open the metal gates surprisingly.

"I did not want to end up like this, just like I said. Submit to my will peacefully, that would be the most advisable option right now," Dark Lord rasped.

The effortless breaching of their south gates took quite a long while to register on the knights and crusaders. Many have tried, but with no avail. Let alone doing it within a span of less than a minute. If that was only the beginning, it could be better if they withdrew before the sour stench of the rain would be drenched with a concentrated smell of charred bodies and burnt metal.

Ikan's refusal to be afraid ended following the blasted gates. The Raydric archers had fitted another thick arrow, training it into the opening. One wrong move or word, death would befall fast on the front man. The knight captain stepped back involuntarily as the rain continued to slash down hard, dampening the knights that were already left with a void feeling in the presence of the Dark Lord.

Captain Ikan was at loss for words as he stared fixedly at the jagged pieces of broken metal bars made too tough to be broken by human means. Raising his head slowly, he struggled to flee under the intimidating red orbs in those black sockets. Every backward step he made, his squad did the same.

The cold look once again turned into one of amusement. The Dark Lord dropped his right hand that was poised in readiness for a quick spell, gave another sharp command that made the Raydrics keep their bow.

"Your fellow neighbours are going to hate you for that," the Dark Lord repeated, although soft, but enough to be heard in the heavy downpour. "Ragnarok last occurred more than a hundred and forty years ago, tearing the world asunder. The Tear of the World… the product of the eternal struggle against the dark side. A good many years were spent shaping up Rune-Midgard…"

"What is your point?" Ikan shouted through the rain, trying to hide the slight quiver in his voice. The captain opened his mouth to add something more, then decided against it to allow the skeletal mage to finish. Though it was uncertain if his death was coming or not, it was better to refrain from provoking him. Not just yet.

"It won't be too long before this holocaust happens once again, and the fault lies with the blasted Council! They have yet to reckon my capabilities to make that the last Ragnarok, make that the last Tear of the World, make me the supreme of all Gods ever existed!" the Dark Lord spoke with fervour, his hands turning a bright purple glow from the spark of the velvet lightning. "And being influential as they are, you vermins tagged behind their backsides, and there I stand before you now, the supposed villain –"

"If you weren't the outcast, the villain, you wouldn't be ravaging across Rune-Midgard with thousands of stinking Shades doing the dirty work for you!" Ikan dared spoke, taking a step forward. It was all too wrong.

The Dark Lord trembled with bolts of velvet lightning fluttering off him. Those red eyes flared a bright ruby, obviously instilling fear into Ikan from his jaws that were dropped past his neck. It was none too difficult telling if the squad shared the same sentiments.

The thick drops of rainwater took to purple glow. Sensing something unusual, Ikan looked up –and before he could assimilate anything, a powerful slam of a purple lightning bolt pounded the captain's spot, splitting into smaller bolts with a sickening buzz. Several knights sidestepped to avoid being hit by the smaller bolts.

A choking smell of sulphur drifting from a charred body burnt beyond recognition intensified the sourness. The pounding of rain created a soft sizzling noise from the degenerated captain.

"Shut up, fools! Shut up!" the Dark Lord roared with undying rage. "That was just a puny sample of Prontera's destiny, and tell your beloved chump King Tristan to reconsider his options. And because of your insolence, this would be insurance to your choice of affiliation…"

The Dark Lord's words trailed off as he shot both hands skyward abruptly, forming a greenish projectile. The projectile widened as it soared into the ethers, and higher into the dark skies, before vanishing in a blink.

The columns muttered noisily from trepidation, if not curiosity, seeing a distinctive red glow emanating from a bloating orb. The rain had yet to dwindle, but the strange orb was clearly visible from the dark background.

The red orb seemed to inflate at a fast pace, or it seemed to, as far as they could observe. From somewhere at the back of a rank of crusaders, a man yelled with a hint of realization.

"Run! It's a meteor! Run, damn it!"

Not many moved despite the man's shout. Either they froze in a rigid stance, refusing to confirm what they comprehended or they regarded him as a madman struck with terror. The truth would be too much to bear.

"And I shall take matters into my own hands, then. A God of supremacy should not be terrorizing this town and that, but little vermins just fail to understand, fail to foresee the brighter road ahead," the Dark Lord continued. "Tell your accursed king, his city will survive no more than sixty days. And tell him that the Lord Phorton before you, the exiled Dark Lord, will stop at nothing, even twisting innocent mortals into Shades, crumbling towns into heaps of powder, including this very capital."

The Dark Lord, or rather Lord Phorton, paused before continuing.

"If learning the hard way exists as a torture, an early compromise could very well be your salvation."

The red meteor hung ominously from the sky above, even though it was about a good twenty miles above ground. Every time someone risked a glance skyward, the meteor suspended in the sky looked ready to be let loose anytime, like a time bomb ready to lay waste and bloodshed anywhere without a person expecting it.


	3. The farmboy

--1--

Water from the shallows lapped gently onto the outskirts of a farm village perched south-east in the Prontera fields, a soft breeze that came along with it may yet fight the evening heat.

In the shallows stood a couple of tradesman with large nets held up in anticipation for even the slightest ripple, trying to grab a few more catches before calling it a day. The summer season was only mid-way through, yet many were grumbling about the scorch, and farmers sat idly in their respective farmhouses, cursing the fiery orb for the decline in harvests.

At least they were blessed with the sea and the aegis under Prontera, considering their location. The folks knew the scorch could be worse for their neighbour, the grandest city on Rune-Midgard, without a close water source nor did they contain a great deal of shades and shelters. The bustling scene and noise there only made more runs of sweat rivulets.

A thin, muddy road sandwiched in scattered forests, or were they even thick enough to be forests, ran past the group of hills known as the Green Hill and out east, before a thinner path branched off to the entrance of Kérun. Cartwheels and boot prints marked all over the dirt packed path, and it was only enough to allow room for four wagons abreast before another strays off to the scrubs and short trees.

As compared to Prontera, Kérun was at most a tenth of the capital city, despite the fact that the farm village was considered one of the most populated and largest villages among the other scattered neighbours. However it could not be compared to even the smallest town off south, Izlude, the square of knighthood.

A security guard was seen leaning back against a jut in the wall with scrawny arms crossed loosely over his chest, his head dropping downwards. At first look he looked like he was sleeping during duty, but his slightly oversized helmet provided a good coverage of his face. Those passing in and out did not pay him any heed though. He might not have realized if a band of Minorouses barged into the farm village.

The path that lead into the town became the main road within that broke off into three streets, each just as crowded. Ragged cheering to the right street attracted attention of those passing by, some hurrying about to their own business after a brief glance and a shake of head, some stopping in their tracks to witness the ending to what appeared to be a fistfight between two equally beefy man.

Many merchants streamed into the village west from Prontera, their almost empty carts indicating fruitful sales. Considering that Prontera imports most of their crop and dairy products from Kérun, one could hardly spot a loaded cart by twilight.

The deep orange sky with mild shades of pink darkened. It was not before the dark fell, and according to typical old folks' constant admonitions, the wilderness was habited with dozens of bloodthirsty beasts who would not hesitate to rip off the neck of those who ventured out.

That belief was a half of amusement and irritation to the small figure perambulating at the edge of Green Hills. The boy could not be more than fifteen, given those look that was more juvenile than a typical fifteen years old. His uncombed red hair glinted in the setting sun, and he pushed his fringes back that were ticking him above the eyes.

Clad in the usual novice uniform, but his a modified version of it due to his vain personality, it consisted of a light brown cotton shirt with a small, simple plate across the chest, and the lower body was covered by breeches of the same shade of brown plus a shin-high leather boots custom made for him by his father. On the back of his cotton shirt was a logo of a red outline of a phoenix, sewn on by his mother. The name on his plate, Rasil, was carved on by himself, although none too perfect as his blacksmith father. He had yet to learn even the tip of the iceberg, since he was always out hunting pupas and training with overgrown, thorny worms called Fabre.

Rasil ran the tip of his finger along the edge of his crude knife that looked like it was meant more for slicing beef than cutting up fabres. It was way too blunt for any further training, and no blood was drawn as he poked the cheap blade at his finger. If it was repaired till it was as good as new, he would have been sucking his finger now.

But he knew he did not exactly lived a pampered life. Whenever he pleaded his father to finish the repairs for him, a curt "no" was what he received, and out he went to his father's cramp forge at the back of his house, absently hammering the crooked blade with a large oridecon hammer that weighed more than he could manage. Sometimes he even feigned difficulties by missing the blade, hammering the anvil instead with a loud _CLANK_, when Luter Alkon happened to walk past. His hopes for help became a sharp yell not to damage that expensive anvil.

He tried to pick up blacksmithing skills all these while to please his father, but he just can't seem to cultivate an interest in it. Blacksmiths needed plentiful strength, just like any others he saw on the road, with all the brawns and tanned, greasy skin he could ever imagine. Although shorter than average, Rasil had developed shapely biceps from long hours of hammering since young, and that somehow won a few admirations here and there.

Now he did not spend as much time honing what he learned so far, but out training by cracking the tough shell of pupas and surviving the cuts and stabs from fabres' thorns had definitely made up for much more he hoped for. He was definitely a tougher person now.

Since young Rasil was told of his elders and ancestors, how they were great blacksmiths who forged equipments so popular among shoppers that it was not impossible to provide for at least three households. He merely nodded his head without any apparent interest whenever the "your great-grandfather and grandfather…" started, and he went gazing out of the window, wondering what the world would be like, and began fantasizing his own adventures someday off in the future.

Just three days ago he painfully parted with his paltry savings to purchase a new knife from a deceptive looking merchant who overcharged him. Rasil was well aware being conned; he did not bother hitching for a lower price since it was the cheapest he could find. Unnecessary attention would be sought if a tirade sparked, and the red-head tried to stray from violence unless it was urgently necessary. And if words travelled to Luter, he was likely to receive a hard lecture. Not only about inviting trouble, but Luter would emphasize more on his incompetence and the need to continue the legacy of this family's blacksmithing.

And three days later there he was again, sighing over his bent knife. With his rate of training, a puny knife would not hold out for more than three days. He needed something better.

He could have easily asked Luter to teach him more other than the basics he learned. But he kept his father out of options. These days Luter was not in the best of mood to do anything.

Just last month, his father made a usual trip to Prontera to start his business for the day, and it seemed like he was none too lucky. A small group of young travellers walked past his shop while tempering with a brown stick, and out of sudden a Creamy Fear spawned out of that stick, startling passer-bys.

Somehow the butterfly demon went for his shop first, smashing it apart, then attacked him. He was caught unprepared. Before he could even whip out an axe he kept at his side, the Creamy Fear bit his arm, and the stinging pain left him dazed on the floor. His entire right arm was completely immobilized.

The Creamy Fear reeled back for another attack, but a local crusader ran over to settle things with quick reflexes. The man tended to the wound, and wrapped a bandage over it. Before he left though, the crusader handed him a tube of green potion to minimize inflammation.

Until now, Luter was not able to forge anything with his good arm injured. He had to rely on fruits like carrots and apples, and some other cheap herbs for income, halving his profit. To make up for it, Rasil was ordered to hunt blue plants for a rare fruit called Mastela fruit that could fetch no little zeny. However, there was no avail. It was not as easy as it sounds.

Rasil kept the purchase of his knife in the dark. Under such circumstances, he was supposed to be squirreling on every cent. He sat on the grassy ground and sighed. Very soon, he would very well be training with his own fists. That would mean another expense for him, bandages. Or maybe even wrist tapes.

The sun had finally set, leaving a pale crescent to start its job. The sky was a light azure, with stubborn shades of deep pink blotching it here and there. Rasil's muscles ached and his legs weighed him down like lead. Sweat slid off his cheeks in thick rivulets, and he felt inclined to go topless. So he did, untying the plate, then unbuttoning his cotton shirt, revealing a pale but well-muscled chest with a couple of distinctive veins running across from his shoulders. The complexion was a contrast to his bronze arms and face, which told that he hardly exposed his torso during his everyday trainings.

He sat with knees propped up, and his knife lay within arm's reach. Reaching his protesting arms down to his leather shoes, he gave several tugs and let it fall to its side. The boy's breathing eased, so did his mind. Rasil thought he would call it a day as he rubbed his sore foot, but a girl's voice had his head jerking towards it.

"Rasil!"

He knew the voice too well, as he heard it every single day. He smiled weakly as the girl in simple tops and skirt approached him, waving excitedly.

"How'd you find me here, Eris?"

The girl, named Eris, plumped down beside Rasil and produced a purple looking fruit in her hands. On the underside lay a few thin leaves plastered on it. Rasil's eyes opened in genuine surprise when the first few hints of recognition registered on him. Eris placed the purple fruit on Rasil's outstretched hand and spoke.

"It's not like we're in Prontera, I don't have to look far. You're always out training."

Rasil turned to face her.

"Where'd you find the Mastela fruit? I haven't had luck at all ever since I started out looking for it. At least that's going to console my father a little. Thank you, Ris."

"Nah," she said sweetly. "Perhaps I'm your walking lucky charm. How's your father now?"

Rasil flushed slightly at the statement, adding to the fact that they were alone and the land breeze ruffled Eris's blonde locks, enhancing her mischievous look that was more of a beauty than one of a typical playful kid running about the streets. He only just realized he was looking at her without bothering to answer, and he suddenly grew redder when he remembered he was half naked. He hastily donned his cotton shirt but left it unbuttoned. He was not sure if she noticed it in the dark.

"My father… ah… yes this should be good enough to fetch some zeny for tomorrow and maybe some consolation. Oh yeah… ah… his arm's swelling had pretty much gone down. He should be resuming his forging business next week."

"Hmm, good to hear so," Eris said. Her smile never seems to vanish. "I don't understand, given your abilities, it won't be difficult at all, at least passing out of novice stage."

"I know," he spoke in exasperation, looking at his worn out weapon. "I had to take care of my father, and he still has much to teach me. You know what happened, don't you? I'm told to bring in extra zeny from the sales of my training spoils. I… I just don't have the time now."

"You see, that's the problem. You always think you're never learning enough."

Rasil heaved a deep sigh. Picking up his knife, he let it fall to the ground again.

"Before I can even get on to my merchant job, I'm sure I need something bigger and nastier than this piece of wrung out recycled steel. Maybe something near to what my father carries."

Her cool, blue eyes held Rasil there for a moment, as if he was mesmerized. She pursed her lips as she absently fingered her necklace.

Rasil opened his mouth for a reply, but a sudden wave of heat washed over him silenced him. It felt like a weak fire had ignited all around him, triggering more sweat drops.

"Grill me, what in the world did that come from… there was still a breeze just now."

The heat augmented, and Rasil sprung to his feet. Half the sun had already dipped behind the horizon; the evening was supposed to be cooler although it was the summer season.

"Eh?" Eris let out a sound. Rasil turned to see a band of people in expensive plates, mails and weapons a few feet away from him. At the head of the group was a young woman who did not look past maturity to even lead a guild of her own. A guild…

"Its nothing, just the Re'Dais," the boy reassured.

Behind the woman were two other apprentices, one a knight and the other a hunter. Recollection of the two's names failed Rasil, but he was sure that they had no love for him, from their thin slits of their eyes. And he too was sure that the woman's purpose here was to keep him occupied in yet another round of persuasion, each time longer and more elaborate than the last. His answer was always a straightforward no.

Opportunities will definitely come by in the future, invitations of an admission into a guild. But not now; he was just a lowly novice without any basic qualifications, experience, not to mention, any battling abilities. Rasil also had his father's expectations to burden himself with. Guilds… a complicated issue that he was not able to comprehend; he had heard of guild wars, betrayals, treachery and other dark deeds he could not possibly fathom at this point of time.

_I would rather live a simple life, get promoted to a merchant, then move on to a good blacksmith, without guilds and battles interfering my life._

"Re'Dais? How do you expect me to know what they are by their names?" Eris pursued. "They look like a pack of blood-thirsty band of miscreants out to gnash anyone they see, even though the girl looks innocent."

Rasil made a gesture to calm his friend. Right now, he wished he had been at home, taking ample rest, enjoying his dinner. Come to think about it, his shoulders ached from blows taken and his arms felt heavy, crying for rest. And the distinct growling in his stomach all the more suggested that he should call it a day long before. But he just had to be stuck with the Re'Dais, at such a time.

The novice felt a tug at his sleeve and knew that Eris was pleading for him to back off, but he gave no indication that he was paying her any heed. "Good evening to you, lady, if I don't already know the purpose of your coming, the light blind me. I –"

The young woman cut him off with a short laugh. "Why not, counting since the past few weeks, I've at least made eight offers, yet all turned down," she smiled at him, with no trace of vexation or anger at all at Rasil's rejection. "I have a good reason for those scrolls sent and proposals made."

"I do not understand, lady magician, hundreds of guilds out there hitches the cream of the crop, not the weeds in a plot. I am but a novice, consider that," Rasil brought up the same reply he had been using the past weeks. He could not think of any better ways to express his refusal, lest he offended the mage. He tried his best to keep up his formality, despite being a farmboy.

"Lady magician?" she giggled a little with genuine humor. "Are all farmboys that funny, or are you an exception? Call me Velina, farmboy, and you don't have to talk to me like King Tristan is standing in front of you."

Thick beads of sweat did not stop sliding down his red cheeks, and he hoped that the mage would not mistake him for blushing. It was indeed a queer rise in temperature, for some reason. He had not felt so much heat before, not as long as he lived in Kérun. "If you say so, la- ah… Velina. You happen to… ah… take offence at my repeated refusal?" He knew he must had looked stupid, and his foolishness must had contributed to half the heat he was feeling too.

The novice found it rather difficult to look away from the mage. He did not hide from himself that she was quite pretty with those pink cheeks, and eyes that seemed to look exceptionally deep into him. Long red curls flowed over her shoulders, and she kept clasping her hands together when speaking, as if in a prayer. He had identified her job from the pale flowing robes with a darker shade of colour at near the hem, and a logo of the Geffen Academy emblazoned on it.

Another tug at his sleeve brought him back to reality, and he realized that he had forgotten about Eris. "Its unusually warm, can we go?" Rasil shook his head, and motioned to her. "You should be going back yourself, I'll come right after you soon."

For a brief second the novice thought he saw a slight flash of jealousy on Eris as she looked from the mage to him. He shook away all distractions; he just wanted to be done with this quick. "Thank you, Eris, for the fruit." He did not know if she heard as she picked herself up and trotted off without turning back.

Velina smiled again when he looked at her, and he was not sure if it was due to the silence of events. Rasil prepared to excuse himself for home, but the mage spoke first. "I shall wait, pardon me if I'm pressuring you pass the line, but don't misunderstand me. I've seen you train, and maybe this would help you a little."

She turned to the knight behind her and held out her hand. The knight frowned without understanding, but not before she pointed to his hip, two swords dangling from the swordbelt. Nodding mildly, he unbuckled one of it with a little reluctance, then placed it in her palm. The mage struggled a little trying to hold the sword in a proper position.

"Lady- I mean, Velina, you're not…" Rasil uttered when he saw the Ring Pommel Sabre.

"Don't say you're not wanting this and run home, farmboy," she said firmly. "I've had enough share of rejections. You have what it takes to become a great fighter, I can see. You don't think you can create a miracle with that broken metal, do you?"

"I… I"

"It's awfully warm, and I know none of us would want to linger any longer," she added, her face suddenly looking redder than before. From the heat, without a doubt. The mage neared the novice, and pressed the sabre against his chest. Rasil was a head taller than her, and he had this "big-man" appearance that seemed to dwarf others he met. He had a feeling that she was estimating him according to his brawns.

"I won't take anything that you spent money on, especially on me. And my father said -"

"Just take it, farmboy! Its not like we three would be living on roadside left overs after buying this sword."

Frowning, Rasil held the sword with more reluctance than ever. The mage smiled, even though he did not accept it willingly. Turning around, she motioned to her two companions to leave. "I've been interrupting private moments between you and that girl, I see, and maybe that can be a compensation as well? Go home, farmboy. I know farmboys are afraid of their old man, go on."


End file.
